May 8th 1946

Foyle came through his front door only to pause in the doorway to the lounge, "Andrew?"

His son looked up with a smile, "Hello Dad"

He was dressed in his RAF blues, appropriate given the day but Foyle still felt the lingering worry wash over him, followed by a wave of relief and gratitude for the knowledge that his boy had made it through. "When did you arrive?"

Andrew glanced at his watch, "About an hour ago, sorry to fall in on you like this"

Foyle shook his head, hanging up his hat and coat before entering the lounge, "Not at all, you're always welcome, you know that" Andrew nodded, head down and when he looked up again he looked older, worn and weary in the same way he used to when he was home on leave during the war and Foyle's chest tightened. "Something wrong?"

Andrew shook his head, "No, I…" he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "It's just today, I…I couldn't stay in London today"

Foyle nodded slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered what his son might be referring too. "Well I'm glad to see you"

Andrew returned his smile, "It's good to see you too Dad. Were you at the service?"

Foyle nodded, "Didn't stay for the parade" he saw how Andrew flinched almost imperceptibly and continued, "Have you eaten?" Andrew shook his head, "I'll fix us some sandwiches and then you can help me do some weeding"

Andrew's shoulders relaxed and his grin was much more genuine as he looked up again, "Does that mean I don't have to do the washing up?"

"I didn't say that" Foyle countered mildly before nodding towards the stairs, "I think you've still got some older things here if you'd like to change?"

Andrew hesitated for a moment and then shook his head, "No need, I went to a service in London this morning and I've got a change of clothes with me" The tension had returned to his shoulders and Foyle chewed worriedly on his cheek as he led the way to the kitchen.

They had been working for half an hour when Andrew finally broke the silence, "Does Armistice Day feel like this for you Dad?"

"Like what?"

There was a pause while Andrew focused on the weeds clearly considering his words, "Like the celebrations are…empty…Last year I was so happy but now…"

He leaned back on his heels eyes fixed unseeingly on the sky, "When I was at the service this morning all I could think about was how no one there would ever know how Aaron was always sketching between scrambles or how Douglas used to talk in his sleep. I kept thinking that I'd give almost anything just to hear Harris sing 'Rule Britannia' again after a pre-dawn scramble or have a pint with Rex…"

He turned tormented eyes on his father, "I was surrounded by people and so many of them stopped to thank me, especially if they saw the DFC, but I might as well have been alone because the lads weren't there; they weren't just my friends Dad they were my brothers"

"I know Andrew" Foyle's voice was gentle, his heart aching at the pain that written so plainly on his son's face

"People call them heroes and they were but they were just ordinary men too" His eyes grew distant again, "I've never heard anyone argue about cricket the way Hamish and Charlie did" he shook his head fondly and then smiled a little wistfully, "And we must have driven Turner mad some days, we had a keep-up competition that ran for weeks and only one football"

As he studied his son Foyle couldn't help thinking that they hadn't been men, they had been boys who had saved England from invasion and become men in the process. And he felt his breath catch amazed anew by the magnitude of what they had asked, and how his son and his fellow pilots had met and exceeded those expectations.

"It always feels odd," he said after the silence had stretched for several minutes, "Armistice Day…and I never could stomach wearing my uniform again"

Andrew nodded he'd never seen his father in anything but a police uniform. As a boy he had always found his father's reticence to discuss the war odd but he already knew that if he ever had children he would do the same.

"Was a chap in my unit who used to whistle all the time, drove half the unit mad but we all missed it when he was killed. Still think of him when I hear someone whistling"

It was the most personal story he'd ever heard his father tell about the First War and Andrew swallowed hard, "What was his name?"

"Liam"

Foyle spoke softly and Andrew replied equally quietly, "We had a lad named Liam in the squadron in Malta, one of the best mimics I've heard. Used to do a brilliant impression of Churchill"

That memory led to another and over the next hour the Foyle men traded stories about the men they had served with, honoring their memories by remembering the men they had been and not just how they had died for King and country.